False Love
by Al D. Baran ou Pervy Otaku
Summary: FrUkUs, FrUk, UsUk. A very dark and terrible story. "Alfred Jones loves his brother very much. So, so much that he will do anything not to let this man taint him."
1. Acte I

**False Love**

 _Alfred Jones loves his brother very much. So, so much that he will do anything not to let this man taint him. Historical AU (Industrial Era), one-sided, dub-con UsUk, sibling incest, fully consensual FrUk. This isn't a nice story, leave if you cannot stomach its contents._

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« You had a temper like my jealousy:

Too hot, too greedy.

How could you leave me,

When I needed to possess you?

I hated you. I loved you, too. »

— _Wuthering Heights_ , Kate Bush

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Alfred just _doesn't_ remember when he's first started thinking of his brother this way. He can't recall the last time he's touched himself to the thought of someone's else's laugh, can't recall having looked at pretty girls like he's done with Arthur. He remembers every little details about him, the way his lips are delicately plump, the lovely cheekbones, slender body, shaped like a cat and wonderfully fragile under all that determination.

There's just no one else but Arthur. Their parents died long ago, leaving a rather gaping hole in their house, filled with servants to raise them and see to their every whims. He's only ever had Arthur; he barely remembers even their mother's face, the gentle way she spoke… Alfred only remembers this part because Arthur speaks to him this way, only taking their father's harsh, driven tone when he is working, making sure their company brings them wealth.

No one else is like Arthur. No one else is worth a genuine attention. Alfred fakes being a lovely, outgoing young man. He attends every parties, humors the ladies and wenches he sees. Once, he's found one willing enough, dragged her with suffocating kisses to the gardens. They'd found a comfortable, toppled barrow behind a shed. He'd bunched her skirts against her corset, tugged her panties down to spear inside.

All the while he thought of Arthur. Fisted his hand into the neatly arranged hair to devour her neck. He drunk her moans, thinking of the sounds Arthur could have made if he had been plowing inside him. He grunted something unintelligible as he came, eyes closing, thinking of only him as he spilled. The lass had seemed enamored enough not to mind, hair mused and lips red. Alfred had smiled, gentlemanly helping her wash. If only she had been someone else.

When he had been young, Alfred had thought himself disgusting. The crushing weight of religion had him fully repentant, praying nights on end for the feelings to _stop_ , to just… end. When they never did and Arthur had noticed just how ill he had become, he had asked, timid and hesitant, if love was a sin. Arthur had frowned, apparently shaken to the core by the question and shook his head.

"No, dear. Love's never a sin. How could it be? He loves us. He makes our love happens. It cannot be."

If Arthur said it, he had naively thought, it had to be true.

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The first time he met Francis Alfred wasn't sure what to feel or think. Arthur had been holding a sumptuous reception, crystal chandeliers shining with the gentle light of a thousand candles. The house was able to welcome around a hundred and fifty guests in the great ballroom and amongst the hundreds of other wealthy industrials and people of vaguely noble origins, were a few peasants.

One of them was a French immigrant whose bourgeois parents had fled the Revolution, taking a liking to London, somehow, and stayed there. François—or Francis, as he insisted to be called as he understood his name might have been harder to pronounce—was a young doctor, just out of his studies and was the most sunning person he had ever met.

Presenting himself as Arthur's friend and extending one hand to be shook, Alfred watched him, surprised into an open-mouthed silence as he watched him. Skin pale and as smooth as porcelain, there was not a dent on it, not a single pore out of place or too large. Francis' hair was a perfect, golden blonde, his eyebrows just furnished enough, the same shiny blonde. His eyelashes were long enough to belong to a doll, fanning over deep indigo eyes. Francis was almost too perfect to be real.

Turning to Arthur to see if he was dreaming of an angel, had noticed his brother was watching the man with about the same surprise and incredulity, yet, mixed with something he couldn't quite get his fingers on. Arthur had moved his arm for him, Francis laughing with a _wonderful_ tenor. The man was too perfect to be human. Alfred had felt rather scared.

Arthur had stood next to Francis, their shoulders brushing and the man sending his brother all too tender stares. It seemed normal to him then that his sickly brother was such good friend with his personal doctor, even if he had changed him so recently. Alfred had thought it was nothing out of the ordinary; Francis had been thirty for barely twenty-four hours then, Arthur was going to be thirty-four in a few months… Their ages were close enough to form a better friendship than between a seventy years-old man and one barely out of his teenage years.

Oh, how naïve he had been.

Alfred could only scoff at how stupid he could be. The stares told _everything_ , even then. How could anyone _not_ see? Arthur returned the Frenchman's tender gazes with timid, enamored, virginally bridal flutters of his eyelashes. His red cheeks had been excused with a fever. He had pulled himself from the feast, leaving him in charge as Francis obediently followed suit.

Francis' terrible beauty could only have been a sign of how evil he was, Alfred knows now.

Perhaps he is even the Antichrist; or Satan himself. After all, it has been said, once the Devil will come back to walk the Earth, he will be someone beautiful, to better charm… it has to be so. Francis is simply too perfect to be anything but a devil. One that has lured his brother into its evil clutches.

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He spies on them anytime he can. Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, Francis turns Arthur's face to his, pressing their lips together, as light as a feather. Arthur blushes and hits him lightly on the shoulder, flustered like a pure maiden. Francis smirks, perfect white teeth showing beneath his lips. They are no sharp, contrary to what one could have thought.

A clever devil hides himself well, after all. So well that he passes for a devout Christian, even though he spend his nights more than guarding his brother's fragile health at night. A clever devil must, after all, look anything but an abomination. Alfred can see through it all. If Francis thinks he is smart, he is gravely mistaken. He's seen through his game almost immediately.

Through a hole he's drilled behind a portrait in his room, Alfred can watch them to leisure. The hole gives right in front of Arthur's bed. If he forces his eye a little, he can see the door. Right in front of him, unseen, is Arthur's writing desk. In the morning he watches after he could hear them make love—or fornicate, as he growl through his teeth, seething—, Francis will sit there to write a note saying he will be in his own room as Arthur keeps him around for his "fragile health". The man mutters his note in a singing tone as he writes it down, each time apparently leaving something else, silently smiling at it.

Francis is infuriatingly good-natured. Alfred treats him like the lowest peasant, yet, the man only smile, understanding like only a predator trying to coax a bunny into its maws could do. Arthur has told him one night to "leave the lad some time" since, after all, there has only ever been the two of them and the servants and the old doctor Fletcher who cared little about getting to know them.

Most nights, Francis sneaks into Arthur's room, avoiding patrolling servants and guards with a precise knowledge of their rounds—perhaps even an ability to turn invisible. Arthur is usually awake and welcomes him with open arms and mouth, pulling Francis close, hands fisted into his coat as the Frenchman brings their forehead together, a satisfied smile stretching his lips. If Arthur is asleep, then, he simply undresses summarily, slipping inside the blankets to sleep with Arthur wrapped in his arms.

If at first, he had been sure Francis was so handsome only because he was an incubus, it seemed sex wasn't something they had too often. Actually, Francis barely did more than hug Arthur, pulling him close, sweetly burying his face into his neck, looking as if the whole world could have been at peace in that moment.

When something sexual happens for the first time when he's been watching, Arthur initiates it all. After enough poems and passionate kisses and pecks on his neck, his brother turns to Francis, pulls him down on the bed by his suspenders. Alfred gags, almost vomiting on the carpet as he hears him say to take him.

 _Tainted_. This awful man has _tainted_ his brother, making him ask for such vile things…

Alfred seethes, watching as Francis uses an unguent inside Arthur's drawers, something for dry skin he says is greasy enough for love-making. Arthur writes on the bed as the devil touches him all over, dragging his almost talons-like hands all over him, delicate artist hands rubbing, gripping, scratching all over him.

His head finds its way between Arthur's thighs, skilled jaws opening to allow his brother's length inside his throat. Arthur bites the back of his hand until blood drips over his cheek, hips rising against the Frenchman's face burrowed between his trembling thighs.

Alfred only has to imagine his brother trembling like this under him, because of him to need to palm his own, painfully tight trousers. He rubs his half-erect cock, watching the scene behind the wall with hushed breaths, scared he will be caught as much as they both seem to be. Francis pulls away with a small chocking noise, some cum dribbling down his lips. Arthur looks up to him, cheeks redder, ears a deep pink.

Francis only smile more, nuzzling his cheek to kiss him again. They undress with trembling, eager hands. Arthur has a miserably hard time with his lover's shirt, pulling each buttons off their hooks with febrile breaths and trembling, nimble fingers. Francis only chuckles, doing it for him, leaving the Brit the honour to actually pull the garment off of him.

Alfred glares at the strong back, hiding him the view of his brother's perfectly pale skin turning to wonderful gold and sepia tones in the dim glow of the oil lamps. Francis is lightly tanned with the time he spends outside searching for flowers—he generally enjoys the garden very much, Alfred noticed while following him. He can only scoff at this. Really? The devil found no ways to manifest itself but a poor peasant?

When Francis rolls on top of them to enter him, there is a moment of silence. They look at each other, Arthur's nervousness being painfully palpable.

Alfred feels painfully hard, squeezing himself to the point of hurting as Francis whispers something against Arthur's ear. He groans.

Arthur giggles, slapping Francis' shoulder again as the man leans away, grinning from ear to ear.

"You're an idiot," he says, adoration making the words barely more than a whisper.

"And you love me," Francis replies, leaning down for a kiss, settling between Arthur's thighs again.

Alfred can barely see what is happening for the next minutes. He pulls away from the hole, seeing only the end of the bed, Arthur's feet trashing under the blankets, pulling it away to revel his wriggling toes. He pulls his pants down to stroke his cock, clinging to the wall, grunts and sighs reaching his ear, helping him reach him peak into his palm as he imagines kissing Arthur's ankles, trust inside him like this…

When he looks into the hole again, Francis has rolled away. Arthur is clinging to him, head against his shoulder, looking wonderfully spent. They speak in whispers, Francis laughing happily as Arthur glares at him, only managing to look like an angry kitten. Soon, he falls asleep, leaving Francis to watch him for minutes on end, humming a song to himself.

Anger and jealousy keep Alfred awake for most of the night, trashing between the sheets, the image of Arthur's pleasure burned behind his retina.

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Francis has to leave.

Alfred doesn't know how, but he knows the man needs to leave their life. Without him, he is convinced he'd have chances with Arthur if the devil would just be gone.

He thinks of starting a rumour about Francis, to have him be incarcerated for sodomy. He knows, however, that doing so would probably bring unforeseen consequences for Arthur. Since Francis and his brother are practically joined at the hips recently, people would guess the two are lover. After all, doctors are allowed in rooms at any time, without questions…

Now, telling about them would bring only pain to his brother. He has to find another way. Scare the man into going away… exorcise the devil inside him. Whatever can work.

Alfred brews his plan for weeks. He thinks about every details, spying on the two of them every nights he can. The two have an enviable sexual appetite, Arthur often crawling on top of Francis to devour his lips for himself, settling his face between his hairy thighs… Alfred could vomit at the mere memory.

Francis is allowed at every reception held without a question, accompanying Arthur through conversation, charming everyone with his quick wits and gentle smiles, his knowledge of how the Kirkland Company's industries worked and a general impeccable behaviour. Alfred can only grip his glass in anger as he watches him putting everyone breathing in his pocket.

Alfred, however, is not as naïve as everyone else. He sees right through Francis' game, knows exactly what kind of horrible things hide behind the man's gentle smiles. Maybe the man just wants to feed of Arthur's sexual pleasure. Arthur has been more tired than usual lately… he fears this damn incubus' practically daily feedings have left his brother sick.

Arthur has always been of fragile health, sick more often than not, nailed to bed with a cold or some kind of rare bronchitis. Alfred remembers governesses he's named for him through his childhood years sometimes even trying to prepare him to the eventuality of death. His brother's frailty has lead them to always have a doctor at home—their estate is too far from London for a doctor to come in a respectable amount of time—and yet, it seems ever since Francis has arrived, his health has been plummeting.

It's been subtle at first, but now, he seems to be cumulating colds. Alfred openly shows his worry, asking his beloved brother if there is something he can do for him, only to have Arthur push him away, waving off his fears assuredly.

Again a reception; Francis flees it hurriedly, a maid was giving birth to her child, the delivery lasting for too long and being too difficult after almost a day's worth of contraction. Arthur had been pouting all night, tumbling around the room as if drunk.

"I'm not sick," he says, his forehead still pearling with tiny drops of sweat. Alfred wants to shake him like a tree, hesitating due to his brother's frail body.

"Right. Come up. You need to rest." Alfred pulls him close, breath hitching as Arthur's body crashes into his. He shivers, unsure of how he keeps control of himself, how he can stop himself from just leaning in, taking his lips into a kiss… There's nothing he wants more than that.

Arthur coughs, clinging to him, his eyes almost rolling into the back of his skull. People start to stare. Alfred hurries to reassure them, leading Arthur's hesitant steps back to his bedroom. The bed hasn't been made yet and he thinks, with sullenness, that they had _sex_ just before leaving for the reception. Arthur whimpers, mechanically pulling himself to the sweat-stained sheets, burying his face into the pillow.

"Ca- call Fran… Francis… he's… he knows what to do," Arthur mutters, pulling a drawer open half-way through. Alfred looks in, finding flacons and needles inside it. He rummages through it, finding little but cotton balls and rubber bands.

Oh, as if. Alfred knows Francis is the one who's made his brother this way, feverish and defenceless… there's no ways he's going to call for this devil now.

Alfred looks at him, having the leisure now his dear brother his fast asleep, so peaceful if for a few raspy breaths. He brushes his lips, wipes the sweat from his forehead. Arthur mutters, calls for Francis softly, pairing the name with a honey-dripping pet name. Alfred scoffs.

His shirt is sticking to him. Trembling, Alfred unbuttons it, nimble fingers taking minutes for each of them. Arthur's body is littered with soft red marks from which, he imagines, Francis feeds off his brother's energy during intercourse. Fever almost drips out of every pores he touches, fingers ghosting on the Briton's soft, perfectly pink nipple.

Arthur twitches, calling out for Francis again in his delirium. He is so hot… heat is practically radiating from him. For a moment, Alfred considers calling Francis, worried with the Briton's fever. But the devil's made him this way… and Arthur looks so exquisite like this, lips red, brows furrowed and cheeks pinks.

He should be his, he thinks, unable to stop himself. He leans down just as he's wished he could earlier, joining their lips together, eyes closing then opening to make sure his brother is still out of it. Arthur barely twitches, grumbling something under his breath. Alfred fears he's about to wake up, pulls away hurriedly to watch him for what feels like an eternity. His brother still breathes with difficulty, unresponsive.

He moves his hands to his chest, touching as if he had been missing it for years. And he has been. He's been watching, staring at Arthur since he was barely more than ten. He's noticed changes in his feelings for him when puberty came, when he started touching himself, with only his brother's soft lips in mind, imagining them around his cock.

The thought of having Arthur's mouth around his member is just enough to make him hard. He groans, one hand brushing over his stomach, dipping into Arthur's pants. The skin of his prick his soft, Arthur is juvenile even there—hair is almost lacking, he can barely push his fingers inside it. He grips his shaft, staring at his beloved, pants around his knees, shirt open, looking just so ravishing…

He lets go of Arthur deceivingly, stubbornly limp cock. He takes his own in one hand, stroking it hard and fast. Alfred shivers, looking at Arthur's defenceless form on the bed, looms over him to trust his tongue inside his mouth. Arthur tastes of tea, milk and cough syrup, with the faint, bitter prickle of wine. Arthur answers with a soft moan, croaky breaths coming out of him as Alfred pulls away. His lips are red and bruised, even more kissable.

Thinking of the breaths as moans, Alfred closes his eyes, wrapping his own lips around Arthur's delightful nipples. He nips, sucks and suckles with eagerness, the apprehension of being caught only making him more aroused, using his other hand to pinch the other. Arthur's skin tastes of rose-scented soap, his cologne gives a soft, minty aroma…

Arthur remembers the girl he's slept with a few months ago, remembers he cute little keens and moans, how he's wished to hear Arthur like this… his brother doesn't quite make a sound now. He groans, hands rustling through the sheets, squirming, calling for another man. Alfred gets up, vexed, ready to leave when Arthur coughs again. He comes back, just to make sure he is alright, knowing he must call Francis to tell him his brother his bed-ridden again.

Arthur's lips are kiss-bruised still, his cheeks shows how bad the fever is.

Unable to resist, Alfred brings the head of his cock against Arthur's lips, pre-cum smearing on them. He's so aroused he fears coming right on his face, heart hammering in his chest. Panicked, he pulls away, just as Arthur instinctively licks off the white liquid off his lips.

He imagines Arthur's lips on his cock again, cheeks puffed and eyes closed, so close to coming it's almost all he needs. He touches himself in long, hard grips, one hand turning Arthur's face to look at him as he brings himself to completion, peaking as Arthur looks to him through half-lidded eyes, falling back asleep as soon as he comes in long, white ribbons. Alfred hurriedly covers his cock, some white drops landing on Arthur's chest and stomach.

Alfred wipes him clean, watching his sleeping brother with tender eyes. There's a noticeable tent in Arthur's pants, but with the way he starts coughing again, Alfred decides it's better to call Francis to have him care for Arthur's state.

He feels Arthur is a little more _his_ now.

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 _Feel free to comment: it is the writer's pay. This story has been cross-posted on AO3._


	2. Acte II

_Alfred acts. It backfires._

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"Late night we sing up songs, we sing 'em slow take 'em last long.  
Sparks grow to wild fly, two birds loving on wire.  
Late night we talk in our sleep, joke about the things that we usually keep.  
Never been crazy like this, check my eyes and tell me what it is.  
I'm sick for you and there's nothing I can do."  
— Jesse Wood, "Sparks"

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Arthur doesn't feel very much his for too long.

It is like Arthur and Francis are joined at the hip. They barely ever leave one another, speaking in hushed tones over tousled bedsheets, hands joined, as if they know they are watched. Alfred hoped his little stunt would have pushed them apart: it seems Arthur doesn't mind his "lover" obviously, shamelessly groping him during auscultation—not that Francis could have, of course, done so without taking his shirt off, at least, or touching him.

Alfred doesn't care. Any gentle touches he sees as disgusting, clawed hands gripping his brother. The man's orders to have Arthur stay in his room with as little stress as possible is just a way to devour him more. Arthur's fever get sometimes so high he can hear Francis sob against his neck, probably for anyone who would have walked in, or of joy, as he has gained another soul. Perhaps devils cry when their prey dies – he would have to find another, after all. The other man is too far gone to hear at all.

It should be him holding Arthur like this in these hard moments. Him praising his brother to eat, him who should give him medication. Francis is just a devil trying to keep its favourite prey alive. He cries only for a lost meal.

There's not much he can do, still. Francis has shut himself with Arthur in the young man's room and naïve guards won't even let him in, even when they are brothers.

He needs Francis to heal his brother, too.

So he plans. Eventually, he will be able to get rid of this vile demon.

He just has to be patient.

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It takes until spring for Arthur's health to become stable once again. After weeks of watch, staying up, listening to the young industrial's feverish babbles, it pays off for Francis. His prey is healthy once again, recovering the weight he's loss to such an extended infection. Alfred hears now, that what his brother has been suffering is pneumonia.

 _Just a side-effect of the incubus' magic draining him_ , he thinks. Arthur has been weak enough to catch a cold, which then simply became worst due to the terrible weather of the winter. The boy wonders if a demon's presence between their walls has cause them to face such a rude winter. Spring is well-established now, with flowers blooming in the gardens, right under his brother's window.

Francis and him cuddle during the day, pressed against one another, hands joined, thinking no one can see them in the cover of the young master's bedroom, watching the roses of the garden, the elaborate fountain's water reaching almost as high as the room's balcony. Alfred gags when he sees them make love in the daylight, Arthur's boyish form nestled in Francis' hairy arms, his stronger frame against the frail, wiry one of his brother, glowing the pale light of dawn.

Arthur seems invigorated by the sex, requesting it with laughs, mocking the devil's lack of enthusiasm – he's so old, after all. Could it be a trick to his mind? Or is it simply a poison left in bite-marks, like a vampire would have sucked the blood out of the tiny punctures, a drug making him dependant on the feeling of his soul being slowly sucked out of him? It could even be both, he thinks, gritting his teeth.

The last few days, Arthur has been able to take work full-time again, and seems less tired than he used to be after supervising the factories' production. Alfred decides of a plan, putting it to work, hopeful that everything would go smoothly. He leaves a note in Francis' office, just minutes he comes inside to look at his paper before leaving to sneak in Arthur's bedroom, carefully imitating Arthur's handwriting, gagging through every words.

" _Francis,_

 _Please, come join me by the fountain._

 _Some fresh air would both do us some good._

 _Love, Arthur._ "

Arthur is always very straight-forward in his notes. No need to overcrowd a tiny bit of paper with loving words – they could be found by such an imprudence. He can allow himself the signature, to add the word love, still. He and Francis, after all, are such good friends and never part from one another. The servants will just think these two chums are going on a little walk outside, joined by the hip like a Siamese twins, welded together by friendship.

 _Or dark magic_ , Alfred thinks with a scoff.

Hiding in the hallway, he sees him, walking nonchalantly, whistling to himself. He grumbles something in French about being hungry – and he will be for long, Alfred thinks, grinning, seeing him come back outside, a light in his blue eyes. Alfred rushes to the garden from the nearest door, hiding in the darkness of the cedar hedges and flowers. The fountain is just a feet away, just under Arthur's bedroom. The window pours light all over the alley, yet, not until the fountain, stopping only a feet before it.

The thrill of danger fills him with adrenaline. His hands are moist, he can't stand in place. Francis finally comes out, apparently none the wiser, even with the strong light of his prey's bedroom illuminating the garden. Francis is only meters away from him, standing next to the fountain, watching it with a little smile. Alfred takes a step to the side as he checks his pocket watch – a pricy gift from Arthur.

The grass creaks under his foot, alerting the Frenchman. If he would have wanted to turn back before, now Alfred knew he was past the moment where he could ever have had. Francis frowns, taking a step back, unsure of what his lover's brother could have been doing at their little secret rendezvous, the coincidence too great to be simply just that.

" _Alfred? Que fais-tu là à ce—_ " The Frenchman doesn't even have the time to protest. Alfred tackles him, one hand on his mouth. The taller man falls in an instant, wrestling to get him off with vigor, even trying to bite him. Alfred strikes him once, knuckles bruising on the man's cheek. Francis' nails dig in the skin of his forearm, leaving three red stripes. The demon's panicked eyes stare not at him, but at the bedroom upstairs.

His desperation only excites him further. Alfred feels elated, features twisted with a terrifying grin.

Alfred groans, struggling to overpower him, still him into submission. Hitting him once again, the demon lets out a muffled groan, becoming limp for a second. He takes the occasion, looking up for a weapon, his eyes meeting with the fountain, its pure white marble almost glowing in the dark. Francis' head meets it with too much ease, rock meeting bone with a series of sickening crunch.

Alfred doesn't remember starting to bash the man's head against the hard, polished stone. But the blood covers it, soiling even the water. Francis is limps in his hands, hardly moving, probably only because of post-mortem spasms. His face is painted red, even the hair he prides himself so much in is now soaked thoroughly, the long, blonde strands dripping blood onto the bluish grass.

Alfred thinks he should feel remorse but as he looks at Francis' corpse, the thrill of the kill only fills him once again. He's hot, sweating and panting, watching the man's hollow eyes look at nothing, his unmoving arm in the water of the fountain. Alfred wants to laugh, somehow managing to stifle it. He walks away, cleaning his bloody hands in the water, with one last look to the corpse, smiling as he leaves for Arthur's room, just to see him before going to bed.

His dearest brother as fallen asleep in bed, the light of his room still lit. Alfred closes them, blowing on a candle next to the bed, covering Arthur's sleeping body with a blanket. The young man frowns without waking, patting the empty spot next to him for Francis' warmth, snuggling closer to the nothingness. Alfred smiles, kissing him good night, on the lips, this time.

When he leaves, he makes sure to burn the note he left in the office. Wealthy, noble industrial or not, the murder of a bourgeois is nothing he wants on his brother's hands.

Now, he will be only his, Alfred thinks as he falls asleep, content.

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Francis isn't dead.

He doesn't know how.

Alfred has no ideas how the man could have survived to such dire wounds, but the man is alive, resting in a bed placed in Arthur's room. The servants, eager to escape their distraught patron's fury, have made up a story about a stalker prowling around the property, sometimes even entering. Arthur gobbled it up without a second thought, as Francis cannot even say who attacked him.

The man woke up just two days ago, confused, not quite responsive but to Arthur. A servant had found him, only minutes after Alfred had left the gruesome scene, sprawled in the garden, slowly bleeding to death, still twitching, exhaling what Alfred had hoped to be his last, few raspy breaths. The violent sobs wrecking Arthur had forced the servants to have him sit down and inhale smoke, the young man shaking from every limbs, obviously understandably completely hysterical.

Alfred _seethes_. Not only has his plan failed, but it fully backfired, exploding right into his face. Arthur spends all of his time with his stupid lover. The damages to his brain turned him childish, only good to be thrown into an institution to be starved to death by uncaring staff, Alfred thinks. Arthur, however, is willing to keep him around, feeding him and washing him, changing the bandages and administrating him pain-killers for the violent pains, holding him down during fit of seizures.

If Francis has become stupid and unable to form clear sentences, he seems to have not loss too much of his intelligence. The man understands when he's spoken too, and above all, remembers clearly his love for his brother, giggling at the kisses he receives, asking to be hugged innocently. Alfred scoffs – this could have been cute, if the demon hadn't been a good fifty pounds heavier than Arthur.

When Francis' head heals from the attack, he still is the same. Unable to walk properly, to hold a spoon, childish and scared by the very sight of him. Arthur assumes with a sheepish smile that it is merely the damage, asking dozens of physicians to come to his help, even engaging a renowned doctor Edelstein to help manage his own health and Francis'.

He dresses him each morning, making sure to bring him outside, to the dining room. A servant is asked to watch over him during reception, that Spanish man he had always been so friendly with. After all, the servants said he was so good with children. Alfred proposes his help, thinking it would be so simple to just inject him with a mortal dose of morphine, but Arthur refuses.

"Oh, Alfred," he says, sounding so desolate he regrets to have asked, "I'm sorry, dear, he's still scared of you… this is so odd. You need to have fun too, during these nights."

He barely sees Arthur anymore. The man locks himself inside his room with his walking, giggling corpse, rarely attending his own receptions, if only to rush back upstairs and soothe his useless demon if he just had a nightmare.

Alfred's jealousy is an ever-growing monster. He refuses to even see his brother most of the time – Arthur is, anyway, most of the time, welded to his retarded baby, feeding and cleaning him just like a toddler would need to be. Arthur simply doesn't have any time for him, Arthur only has time for his stupid incubus, he only has time to care for _him_.

Just saying the name fills him with rage. Punching the nearest object, Alfred watches as the flower pot crumbles as it touches the floor, water and porcelain flying to every corners. He calls a maid to clean, catching her as she's about to leave, closing the door in front of her, an inviting smile on his lips. "Miss," he says, hearing the click of the door, leaving them both in silence. "Perhaps you'd enjoy coming with me to the gardens. It's been quite lonely for me, recently… I would sure enjoy the company of a lovely wench like you."

He leads her away into the gardens, even into the woods. She's pretty, smiling and giggly, following him with puppy-like thrusts right after he announces how perturbed and grievous he is of what happened to his brother's best friend. The compassion he fakes makes her cling to him, as if trying to comfort him, like any stupid woman would have. Alfred smirks, takes her hand and kisses her softly.

To be favored by a Lord like Alfred is an hopeless chance for her, he knows, and uses to his advantage. Easily, he pushes her against a tree, bunching her skirts up and takes her without waiting. She squeals, holding onto his strong shoulders with a wonderful moan. Holding the wench's wrists above her head, he thrusts into her, eyes closed, imagining Arthur there with him, calling his name in a whorish voice like hers.

He spills inside and pulls away, uncaring for her pleasure, pulling his pants up without even a look for her. When the wench tries to hug him, as she thinks post-coital bliss should be spent, he guesses with a scoff, not even sparing her a single glance.

Timidly, she asks, "My… My Lord, you have come inside me…"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"N, no, sir, but… you are not without knowing—"

"That you could get pregnant?" Alfred chuckles, feeling somehow glad his brother is no woman. Like this, he couldn't get his stupid incubus' child, which would surely suck all life out of him. Maybe this is what the incubus wants to do, taking his brother so often… is so stupid that he cannot recognize man from woman? Alfred wouldn't be surprised. The idiot always had had the intelligence of a caged bird, watching itself in its tiny mirror. "Yes. I do know that."

She gives him a mousy, timid smile.

He returns with a wide one, showing his straight, perfect teeth. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You don't have to think about that. You won't get pregnant."

"Really? But Sir, how?"

Such a dumb little doe. Smiling wider than ever, Alfred easily pushed her to the ground, sitting on her body, knees weighing on her weak forearms. The girl fought, but as he joined his hands around her neck, she could not even let out a scream. The excitement and shivers from his last attempts were back, filling him with both adrenaline and joy. To clearly see life dwindle from her pretty green eyes, the intricate hairdo ruined, blonde strands falling around her as she trashed.

Eventually, she stopped, limp and unmoving, eyes half-lidded and mouth still open. Dead. Alfred stood up, watching the blue marks on her neck and palmed his half-hard cock. The sight of her glassy eyes, body sprawled there… Alfred thought of Arthur, smiling wide.

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Alfred wakes in the night, troubled by the dream of his brother moaning under him. The room is empty but for him, and, as if on instinct, he pats the bed beside him, just to see if it really was indeed just a dream. There is no one next to him, warm or cold, but there are noises. Standing up, he walks to the portrait, guided by the conspicuous noises. Was the incubus back on his feet during the night? Was he faking to be diminished by his attack, just to slip right under his nose and gain even more of Arthur's sympathy and time?

Alfred moves the portrait to the desk, sitting on it to be on a comfortable height, closing one eye to watch through the hole. A gasp escapes him instantly; he has to cover his mouth, too shocked to even form a thought. Of course, the two of them were having sex – what else were they ever doing? Recently, Arthur has been sleeping with one eye open to make sure his friend hasn't been missing anything, insisting to be the one to take care of him, still. They haven't had sex for days now, Francis' state not allowing for anything to happen.

And even if he could get it up, would the diminished, stupid man understand anything that was happening? If he enjoyed sex before, Alfred wondered if the man would like it now, when his idea of affection seemed to have reverted to kisses and hugs – both of which Arthur was more than willing to dispense. Even if he would want to have sex, the man's movements are too choppy now, he'd be unable to aim and imprecise.

Arthur seems to have found a way to pleasure him, still, taking note of the demon's injuries and inability to do much but be black hole for both their energy and money; he's bouncing on his cock, legs folded under him, hands around the incubus' face, one of them petting his hair tenderly. Alfred gags at the sight, convinced his brother is painfully manipulated, boiling as he hears his throaty, breathless moans.

The demon has a permanent frown, calling to Arthur in babbles, holding on to his wrists tightly. Arthur needs to carefully time his movements, sometimes stopping entirely to make sure the man's cock doesn't slip out of him. "It's alright, love," he whispers, languidly fucking himself on him, eyes closing sometimes to enjoy the feeling of the slow, tender penetration. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he repeats, a sob in his voice.

"Arthur," Francis croaks, the word coming out oddly from him. Alfred frowns – it's the first time he actually hears him say a real word. He sounds oddly distressed… the boy grins, recognizing the emotion without trouble. The wench he's fucked earlier this week had the same cry in her throat, calling for her as he choked her.

He's glad to hear him suffer at first – it soon changes to anger and despite, he scoffs as he stares to them. Arthur is moving up on him, and the asshole doesn't even look half hard. Wasn't he happy to be buried there before? Alfred wishes he could spit on him. He's taking Arthur just like he wishes, making love to him when he's supposed to love him, and he's making such a face? Isn't he supposed to love this? What an imbecile.

With rage, he returns to bed, pleasuring himself with the eagerness of a teenager in love, Arthur's pleasure-filled face imprinted behind his eyelids.

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Alfred pulls away from the hole before he can see Arthur lift himself off, crying silently, earning himself a worried gaze from Francis' teary eyes. The man doesn't understand, but Arthur knows. Francis is confused, reaching to him with a jumbled sentence, the word undisguisable from each other, apparently just as distressed from the sexual touches as he is to see him cry like this, a hand over his mouth, face contorted with sobs.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, pulling the doctor's clothes up, fingers nimble from the lack of sleep and exhaustion. It's been days since the last time he slept on both ears, always on high alert, always waiting for Francis to convulse. He still doesn't know who has hurt him. It hurts to be helpless to avenge him, to always need help to lift him up, to clean him… it also hurts to see Francis so diminished, apparently not so aware of his condition.

 _But it's still Francis_ , he thinks, seeing his smile as he weakly reaches up to wipe his cheeks, awkwardly drying his tears, giggling as he smiles. Smiles are good, he knows. Tears are not, he knows, too. "I'm alright," Arthur assures, pulling Francis close, mouth hovering next to his lips before he kisses his forehead, Francis pulling him down to peck his mouth with a mischievous smile that looks so much like the annoying, infuriating Frenchman he knows that he wants to pull him close and let him kiss all of his worries and pains away.

Yet he knows, of course, the Francis who was the one to carry him and treat him is gone. The one who's healed him all winter won't come back – he will never be the same. Love is about accepting and never giving up… Arthur holds him close, Francis eventually falling asleep against him, slumbering peacefully against his shoulder, just like a little child, loosely holding him. So what if Francis is childish and throws tantrum like a baby, crying and yelling when servants try to make him eat something he doesn't like? So what if Francis wets himself and soils the bed like a toddler? So what if Francis can't ever read him poetry and sing him to sleep? So what if he can't be sexually satisfied from him again?

Arthur knows Francis would be there holding him. He would be there, cleaning him, singing lullabies to him. Francis would be there. Arthur knows and he won't let him down. He'll be there to reassure him when he needs to be medicated, he'll be there to kiss the nightmares away. Kissing Francis' temple, Arthur feels peaceful, if sorrowful, watching Francis sleeping, a calm, great strength filling him. He'd love him anyway. He would.

"Despite everything, it's still him," he whispers against his forehead, eyes closing, still smelling the same sweet scent in his hair. His fingertips still feeling the same softness on his skin. His body still giving the same warmth.

It would always be Francis.

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 _Feel free to comment: it is the writer's pay. This story has been cross-posted on AO3._


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